Paulo’s shoulders slumped. Wearily, he said, “Sit down, senhora.” He indicated the green sofa in the lounge space. When she did, he sat in the padded chair next to it, absently pushing the sleeves of his tee to his elbows. He took a pack from his shirt pocket and shook a cigarette out, then held the pack out to her. “You want?”
“No thanks.”
“I cannot go to the police,” he said, after he lit his. “I, too, am a criminal. I was not criminal before I meet O Lobo, but now I am. They will arrest me.”
I, too, am a criminal? Carla swallowed nervously. Why had she been so sure he was just a victim? Still, he looked so vulnerable, so miserable, it was hard to feel afraid. Well . . . very afraid.
“Why don’t you tell me about it,” she said. She put her purse in her lap and folded her hands over it, leaning away from the smoke that drifted toward her.
“I stole that bottle the first time,” he said. “Maybe five weeks ago. Six, maybe.”
“The first time?”
“Is complicated, senhora.”
“Call me Carla.”
“I am saving my money to study to become a sommelier,” he said. “You know what sommelier is?”
“Sure. A wine expert.”
“There is society in America, in New York City, that gives certificate. I must go to New York to study. I know much about wine already,” he said with a flicker of pride.
“Go on,” Carla said.
“O Lobo comes to the restaurant where I work many times. He is supposed to be interested in his dinner, but he is studying me, I can tell. One evening he asks me do I want to do a small job and make a lot of money? From how he asks, it does not sound legal. At first, I say no. Then I think about it. It take long time to save money as waiter. I decide, if it is not drugs, I will do one job, no more.”
“What did he want you to do?”
“To steal the bottle in your photograph. The one with the signature of a duke. To steal it from wealthy man who has mansion in the hills. During a party he gives.”
Carla felt a thrill of vindication. Hadn’t she said as much to Fernandes earlier? That Paulo, a waiter, might have stolen Pereira’s bottle at a party? “Senhor Pereira,” she said.
His eyes widened. “Sim,” he said after a moment. ‘Senhor Pereira is big shot here in Braga. He is giving an important party. Very big. Very grand.” Paulo waved his cigarette. “He needs another waiter. The person who employs O Lobo wants me to go. I do not know this employer, but he has told O Lobo to find a waiter who knows wines. My job is to replace Senhor Pereira’s bottle with forged bottle. O Lobo tells me where to find the real one in the wine cellar. When the butler sends me downstairs for more wine, I make the switch.”
“And how did O Lobo know where to find the real one?”
“His employer knows. For some reason, he have been in the house, in the cellar.”
“So you made the switch. Just like that!” Carla looked Paulo up and down, trying to imagine him in a white shirt and black pants, the uniform of waiters everywhere. Where would he stow the bottle? “How did you do it?” she asked. “Wouldn’t there be a bulge in your shirt? In your pants pocket? Ah. The butler was in on this, so he looked the other way.”
No wonder Walsh is so upset.
“Não. Não. The butler knows nothing about the plan. The man who gives O Lobo this job tells him where to find the bottle and O Lobo tells me and first gives me the forged bottle from where he hides outside the servant’s door.”
"So how did you manage it?" Carla pursued.
Paulo took a new puff, exhaling slowly. “I wrap forged bottle in towel, and walk with purpose as if to banquet table, but I go to cellar instead, where I make the change. I bring up three bottles from cellar, the special bottled wrapped in towel, and I walk with purpose again back to the kitchen. To look for better bottle opener, I say. I set two bottles on counter, the special one under my arm, still wrapped in towel. I look through drawers. I joke with waiters about this expensive house. When they go out with food, I take bottle to servant entrance and give to O Lobo, who waits in shadows. Then I open the other bottles and take back to main table. You see, if you do with confidence, there are no questions.”
Paulo rubbed his bristly chin, his puppy eyes melancholy. “After O Lobo pays me, he asks do I want more jobs. I say, no, but he keeps asking.”
“But how did Senhor Costa get the bottle?” Carla asked, astonished by the simplicity of the theft. “And why were you going into his shop so often?”
Paulo looked away. “Maybe a week later, by accident I go into the shop,” he said after a moment. “I see the bottle next to another in the glass case. Both are so much expensive. I ask where he gets this bottle from—the one with the duke’s name, not the other. He says it is long story. When O Lobo comes to the restaurant again, I ask him, ‘Why do I steal a bottle for you only that you sell it to a man here in Braga?’”
“Did you mention the shop?”
Paulo nodded. “O Lobo is upset about this. Later he tells me his employer wants me to find out more. Is impossible for the bottle to be in Senhor Costa’s shop, O Lobo says, unless the forger is double-crossing. Maybe he sells the original and gives O Lobo’s employer another forgery.” Paulo rubbed his thumb and fingers together. “More money for the forger.”
“Yeah, I get it,” Carla said. The earlier conversation with Fernandes sprang to mind. Taking in Paulo’s sad expression, it was easy to believe he was panicked by a situation expanding from one forgery to possibly two. Even three, if the bottle O Lobo grabbed from her turned out to be another forgery.
“And you don’t know who Lobo’s employer was?” she asked. “Or how he knew where to find the bottle in the cellar?”
He shook his head. “Is mystery man.”
“Never mind,” she said. “The police can probably find that out from calls on O Lobo’s cell phone.”
“O Lobo makes calls always from public telephones.” Paulo ground his cigarette out in the ash tray.
Clever bastard. “So, then you started seeing Maria?” Fingering the strap of her purse, Carla knew instinctively she wasn’t going to like the answer.
Paulo looked down, as if ashamed. “When I went back to ask about the bottle, it isn’t in the case. I ask Senhor Costa, ‘Where is your other fancy bottle?’ I don’t want him to know I understand what it is. I ask where does it come from, how does he get it? He tells me he bought it from a man in Galicia who bought it from someone in Porto. He laughs, then, and tells me he will make a lot of money. This I tell O Lobo.” Paulo sighed. “I should not have.”
“What about Maria?” Carla prodded.
“I go back to the shop again, and she is there. I hear her call him “tio,” uncle. O Lobo tells me to accidentally meet her again in other places—he knows where she goes.”
Of course, he does! Carla shivered, remembering O Lobo’s recital of every place he had seen her.
“‘Seduza a sobrinha,’ he tells me,” Paulo said. “‘Find out from her where is the bottle is, or we tell police what you have done.’”
Seduce the niece. Even she could translate that. Carla frowned. “But wouldn’t reporting you to the police get O Lobo in trouble, too?”
Paulo raised a palm, his mouth twisted in a jaded smile. “Senhora, I have so much cash if the police search here. Too much to put in bank with no explanation, because I am only waiter, yes? O Lobo can inform anonimato. How you say, ‘anon . . . anoni . . .”
“Anonymously?”
“Yes. And then disappear. I have no place to hide it. Unless I go away.”
“Which would not be smart, Paulo. Especially now that O Lobo’s in jail.”
He massaged the lower part of his face. “Senhor Walsh remembers me.”
“You’re right about that.” Carla gave him Walsh’s message. “He says he hasn’t given your name to the police yet. But O Lobo probably will finger you. And the police pretty much know where you are. If you go to the station and tell them what you
just told me, I’m sure they’ll be easier on you.”
Paulo’s only response was to hunch over, elbows on thighs, his thumbs and fingers forming parentheses at his temples.
“About Maria,” Carla said, and the memory rose in her mind of Maria’s surprised face Monday in the wine shop when she peered at the camera pictures showing her uncle had a bottle signed by a duke.
Paulo looked up.
“You never did ask her about the bottle, did you?”
“No. I can see very soon she knows nothing. I tell O Lobo this. And then I . . . just keep seeing her, because . . ..” Paulo faded off.
Because you’re in love with her.
“What about the other bottle?” Carla asked. Paulo looked puzzled. “The second one in the glass case. The 1812 bottle for three thousand euros? Someone stole that one, too. Do you think it was O Lobo?”
Paulo’s lower lip jutted out, as he considered that. Then he shrugged. “No. I think he was only wanting the forgery bottle.”
Someone wanted it, though.
She rose, aware all at once of how exhausted she was. And hungry. She’d eaten hardly any breakfast and no lunch. The image of a plate with bread, cheese, and some olives on the side rose in her mind, along with a nice crisp glass of vinho verde.
“I have to go. But please think about what I said.”
Was he even listening?
At the door, she glanced back. He was still huddled over, face in his hands. She went out, closing the door quietly behind her.
Chapter Fifteen - Some Disconcerting News
Nibbling a cheese sandwich at the kitchen counter, Carla realized she hadn’t stopped by the antiques store to tell Senhor Godinho she wanted the mirror. She finished her sandwich and dialed the shop, letting him know she’d stop by the next morning to pay for the mirror. The auctioneer would arrange to have it picked up for shipping along with the two paintings she expected to snag tomorrow night. With Mrs. Demming’s generous budget, it was hard to believe she wouldn’t outbid any others.
After hanging up, she went into her office and briefly reviewed information she’d researched about the artwork. Mrs. Demming liked the Barbizon school of painting and had been excited when Carla told her two landscapes by António Carvalho da Silva Porto were coming up for auction. Mrs. Demming was getting more enthused about Portuguese artists and antiques each time Carla contacted her, and Silva Porto from Portugal was one of the greatest naturalist painters of the 19th century.
Satisfied everything was in order, Carla ran a hot bath and let herself luxuriate in the suds, feeling remnants of the day’s tension drain away. She wrapped herself in her terry robe, noting in the bathroom mirror the red mark on her left cheek. How badly would it bruise? When she rubbed it gently, it didn’t particularly hurt, but the back of her jaw ached from where O Lobo had pressed his thumb. In the kitchen she poured a glass of Alvarinho. Forgoing the garden, she took it to the bedroom, which overlooked the garden anyway. Outside the window, clouds of pink blossoms on the Judas tree stirred from a slight breeze. Setting her glass on the night table, she plumped several pillows, then curled up on the bed, and turned on her e-reader.
She flipped through her stored books and came to one of Rhys Bowen’s Molly Murphy mysteries set in the last century, City of Darkness and Light. She’d already read it, but suddenly 1903 Paris seemed an appealing escape from bottle thieves and present-day dead bodies.
After two chapters, she drowsed off into a deep, dream-filled slumber. Molly’s maid was muttering about shoes. Carla was running barefoot down a New York alley with O Lobo chasing her. He was gaining on her. Carla tried to run faster. She couldn’t. She tried to wake up, but the syrupy tide of the dream kept pulling her back to see how it ended, despite a feeling of dread.
Finally, she wrenched herself out of the dream. Relief pulsed through her, seeing the familiar print on the wall of Bom Jesus do Monte, the Baroque hillside cathedral with its zigzagging “five senses stairway” climbing up, up, and up. She pressed her hands against the bedspread, reassured by the smooth fabric under her fingers. As she lay groggily awake, trying to shake free of the dream, she became aware of cooking aromas. Hot olive oil. Paprika. Fish.
She clambered out of bed, still feeling woozy. Barefoot, she limped into the kitchen, where Owen, wrapped in his chef’s apron, dropped a new piece of battered fish into a pot of hot oil. A platter on the counter was heaped with golden strips of fried potatoes.
He grinned. “Awake? You must have had quite a day.”
“You wouldn’t believe what kind of a day!”
His grin faded. “What happened to your cheek?”
“Long story. Just take care of that fish while I get dressed. I’m starving.” She limped out of the kitchen and down the hall to their bedroom and changed into slacks and a light tunic.
Over dinner, she told him everything that had happened.
Halfway through her account, Owen put his fork down, visibly jarred, his gray eyes wide. “Jeez, Carla! You were supposed to be in safe hands. Fernandes said there was nothing to worry about.”
“I was in safe hands. My shadow came spectacularly to the rescue,” she said lightly, hoping to calm him. “You’d have been impressed.”
“You could have been killed if he hadn’t been in time.”
“I’m here,” she pointed out.
“What about this weird butler giving you messages for Paulo? And I don’t like the sound of Paulo,” Owen added. He ran a hand over his face as if to brush away a swarm of worries.
“Paulo made a stupid mistake, and that’s for him to explain to the police. Or to Senhor Boris Karloff, now that I’ve passed on his message.”
“What were you thinking, Carla? Going to Paulo’s apartment? Alone? If anything happened, no one would know where you were.”
“I think you’re overreacting. I had my cell phone.” Carla brushed away her earlier unease when she was in Paulo’s stairwell, before he let her in and she heard his story. “Now that he knows he’s safe from O Lobo, he’ll probably . . .”
But Owen wasn’t listening. He picked up a French fry, dipped it in tomato sauce, and put it down again, his brow still puckered in concern. “Promise me you won’t do something like that again. Don’t you realize how much you mean to me? Can you even imagine how I'd feel if—”
Carla had never seen him so upset. “I promise,” she said in a small voice.
“Seriously.”
“Seriously. Cross my heart.” Carla did a little crisscross over her heart with her finger. “But getting back to O Lobo,” she said, “Fernandes said I helped catch a very bad man.”
Immediately, from the look on Owen’s face, she quickly added, “Meanwhile, I’ve invented what Fernandes calls my ‘shoe maneuver.’ I hope O Lobo’s foot is a mess.”
Owen managed a weak smile. “Nice to know you have dual-purpose shoes. Nobody messes with Carla.” The light tone Owen attempted didn’t match his face.
“Not if they want to walk again. Mwahaha.”
“What matters is that you’re safe,” he said. “Promise me you’ll let the police tie this up and just stick to finding more antiques for your rich client.”
“Don’t worry! I’ve had enough excitement to last me a lifetime.”
“Toast?” Owen raised his glass.
“Toast.” They clinked.
“The fish came out well,” Carla said. “Moist and succulent.”
He turned his palms up. “Chef’s specialty and your favorite—bacalhau.”
“The potatoes are crispy too.”
“What can I say?”
As she took the next bite of fried cod, Carla’s thoughts made a sudden U-turn back to Geoffrey Walsh.
It was all very well for Detective Fernandes to dismiss Walsh’s threat as bluffing. But what if the butler wasn’t one to make idle threats? What if he really had decided to handle Costa his way? Walsh was a tall man. An angry shove could have sent Costa sprawling to his death. No one had mentioned seein
g a tall creepy man on the scene near the time of death. But there was that outside corridor between the wine shop and the souvenir shop. He could have returned to the shop from the other street. No. Because he'd have to have a key to the gate. But maybe he could pick locks. And Walsh didn’t know Costa had given me the bottle. But what about the lump on Costa’s forehead? Well, he could have done that with the bottle from the case, after Costa fell.
“What?” Owen said, his worried frown returning.
“What do you mean, what?”
“You squinted your eyes.”
“I’m reading a Molly Murphy mystery,” Carla said. “It has a complicated plot.” She speared a new bite of cod and concentrated on her plate.
Since Owen had cooked, Carla took care of the dishes, over his protests that she should rest and relax with a book after her harrowing day.
“Uh-uh,” she said. “When I cook, you wash up, and vice versa. That’s our routine,” she reminded him. “Go out on the balcony and have your smoke in peace.”
Besides, she found it more soothing to perform a normal task like rinsing plates and table ware. Trying to rest and relax with a book hadn’t worked. She had just finished loading the dishwasher and pressing start, when the outside buzzer gave its distinctive blat, announcing a visitor outside the entryway.
After a few minutes, they opened the apartment door, and Detetive Fernandes nodded his greeting, looking dapper and solemn as ever. He sat in the overstuffed chair, they sat on the sofa, and without much preamble, the detetive gave Owen his own recap of events.
“We found the bottle O Lobo took from your wife in his apartment,” he added. “He was keeping it for someone. At present, he will not say who, but . . .” Fernandes made his circle-in-the-air gesture with his hand, “. . . it is only a matter of time.”
“Do you think it’s a forgery?” Owen asked.
“We are sending it to the expert who examined the other bottles. In another week or two we will know if it is authentic. If so, we will return it to Senhor Pereira. If not . . ..” The corners of his mouth turned down. Clearly police business.
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